


Shipmates

by gaygreekgladiator (ama)



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friendship, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 17:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1034270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/gaygreekgladiator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barca met Castus when he was a young warrior from Carthage; now, as a rebel with Pietros at his side, he meets him again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shipmates

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by an anon prompt for the October 2013 challenge. Hasn't been betad, so there are probably some mistakes--I'll get to them soon, I promise!

“What shit is this?” Agron muttered, and a slow grin spread over Barca’s face.

“Brigands of Cilicia.”

“Pirates?”

Barca fixed his eyes on Heracleo, chuckling at the whims of the gods. He had first met the man when he was young—he had needed _some_ way to ferry an army from Carthage to Hispania without alerting the Romans, and the pirates had been obliging. Occasionally, through the years, he would run into various crewmembers in the bowels of Capua’s underworld, when he was doing errands for Batiatus, but it had been a long time since he had had time to sit, drink, and share stories with his fellow wanderers.

He watched as Spartacus and the other rebels waited, tense, for Heracleo to reveal his intentions, and tried to keep from laughing. Heracleo had no love for Rome; he had lost too many former captains and crewmembers to her patrols. Besides, he had brought wine. If Heracleo were to poison anyone, he would do it by means other than good wine.

Finally, a consensus was reached and Spartacus began to lead his generals and his guests into the city. Barca joined the group following Spartacus, Pietros at his side, and a familiar shape fell into step with him.

“Barca. Every time I see you, there is a prettier man on your arm.” Castus leaned around him and flashed a gallant smile at Pietros. “Though I suppose this is the last time that will be true, as I cannot imagine a face more lovely.”

A surprised giggle escaped Pietros’s lips, but he did not respond; he looked up at Barca curiously.

“Ignore him, Pietros,” he said, suppressing a smile. “I have known Castus since he was a suckling babe, and he has been speaking nonsense for nearly as long.”

“A suckling babe of thirteen years!” Castus protested.

“Ten.”

“ _Thirteen_.”

It was an old argument.

Pietros had heard stories of Castus before, of course. Tales of pirates and brigands were more fun to tell in the ludus than the tragedies of childhood, and Castus a more amusing figure than Mago. Pietros looked at the pirate now, open fascination on his face.

“You are Castus? It is a name known to me.”

“I am. Although I would have you forget all you have heard, because I do not trust this brute to have spoken well of me.”

“I have spoken true,” Barca protested.

“Even worse.”

They laughed—a sound that broke the uneasy murmur of voices and muttering, as soldiers of the rebellion and brigands of Cilicia surveyed each other. Agron looked over his shoulder, customary frown written in deep lines on his face. His gaze rested first on Barca and then, suspiciously, on Castus. He did not say a word, but soon hastened forward and appeared at Spartacus’s heel.

“That one doesn’t like me,” Castus murmured.

“Sentiment shared by many,” Pietros said with a reassuring smile. “Agron does not easily lay trust in anyone; do not take it to heart.”

“Still, I shall return to my captain’s side and hope to find some measure of protection there. I thank whatever gods saw fit to reunite us, my friend,” he said to Barca, clapping him on the shoulder. “And let us hope that they would see us with drink in hand—soon.”

“I would have it so,” Barca nodded, returning the gesture.

“And bring your pretty friend,” Castus added. He winked broadly at Pietros and slipped into the crowd, just quickly enough to escape the open-handed slap Barca meant to deliver to the back of his head.

“Incorrigible,” he muttered.

Pietros’s arm hooked around his waist and Barca returned the gesture. Pietros was smiling.

“You were right—if nothing else, he is entertaining.”

“Mm. And less dangerous than Heracleo. I doubt he means us harm, but I would hear what brings him to the city.”

Heracleo greeted Barca as they entered the courtyard and Barca nodded back, then deliberately placed himself close by Spartacus’s side. The rebel leader glanced at him and Barca shrugged. Spartacus nodded and turned back to the Heracleo, who began speaking about the aedile’s seal. There was more unnecessary tension between the two groups, which only caused Barca to roll his eyes, and then the pirates left and Spartacus sought his generals’ opinions.

Gannicus, unsurprisingly, was in favor. Agron, unsurprisingly, was not. Then Spartacus turned to Barca.

“You have had some dealing with the pirates, have you not? What is your opinion on them?”

Barca shrugged.

“Good men, by and large. Many are good fighters, swift sailors—and they are not in the habit of abandoning allies with the changing of the wind, which is more than can be said for half the field slaves streaming through the gates this very moment.”

“You would trust them, then?”

Barca leaned against the table, thinking hard. He trusted Castus, that was true; they had met often enough, in pleasant circumstances, that he might cause the man friend. He liked Tryphion, too, and Heracleo had never given cause for Barca to doubt him. But really, his opinion on the pirate crew was based on the faith held by others, and Barca was not a man given to rely on another’s judgment. His reply was slow, but sure.

“I would not trust any of them further than I might throw a bit of gold—and even then, be wary of one with a stronger arm.”

“Let us find the seal they speak of, then, and we shall negotiate terms upon discovery.”

\---

The entire villa was saturated in the smell of wine. A few drops from a spilled cup clung to Pietros’s forearm, beside the drops of blood.

It was Pietros’s habit to rush to a wounded man; he had often done so in the ludus, and since rebelling he had taken on the role of medicus to an even greater number. When he had seen Castus’s injuries, he could not help himself from going to the pirate’s aid, though Castus’s wounded pride had allowed him only a cursory examination.

Pietros had been annoyed, of course, but he had allowed Castus to go back to his own ship to tend to his sounds. Now, in the privacy of their own room, he unleashed the full measure of his anger.

“Agron is out of fucking control,” he fumed, his fingers tugging at the straps of his boots. Barca leaned against the wall.

“It is of little concern. How many times have I done the same, to men who approached you?”

“To men who wished me harm. I was facing Nasir, and I can swear—he was not frightened or angered. And besides, the targets of your temper were never men who were so immersed in drink and shock that they could hardly raise a hand in their defense.”

Barca acknowledged that silently. He had lived among warriors too much to find cause for apprehension in a drunken brawl, but he could tell that Pietros was upset, and he did not wish to dismiss him too harshly. When he did not respond, Pietros looked up. His frown deepened. He slipped off his boots and turned towards Barca, resting a hand between them on the bedspread.

“Barca, I am worried,” he said in a low, urgent tone. “We have been without Mira or Oenomaus for a year, and voices of caution are thin on the ground. The rage we once attributed to Duro’s death is resurfacing in Agron, Saxa desire for blood yields to none, and Naevia… I love her as a sister, but I am afraid that her ordeals have hardened her art to anything but vengeance—Crixus, the same. Nasir and Spartacus have sense, but Nasir does not raise voice as often as he should, and Spartacus can not see everything. What does it say about our revolution when the sanest among us—excluding you and I—is _Gannicus_?”

There was a moment of such silence that Barca could hear the muffled sound of revelry from the courtyard. He rested his hand on top of Pietros’s.

“I understand your meaning,” he said with a heavy sigh. “War wreaks havoc upon the minds of men. Peace and victory will heal; until then, let us keep close watch to prevent any other damage.”

“Will there be peace and victory?” Pietros asked seriously. “Will people still flock to our army in droves when they hear of how we treat new allies?”

“I do not know,” Barca admitted. He leaned forward and kissed Pietros on the lips, wondering how a slave with so little experience in the world could become so astute. “I will voice your concerns to Spartacus—as though you do not have his ear yourself.”

Pietros’s lips twitched in a relieved smile at that. Barca admired Spartacus as a leader, but he had little idea why Pietros was so drawn to the man—nor, for that matter, why his feelings were returned. Somehow, the ludus slave and the general had become fast friends.

“My worth in this rebellion is as a healer and a distributer of supplies; these concerns will have more weight from a commander. Gratitude.”

“As if I would refuse. You know I have always softened to your will.”

Pietros’ hand trailed idly up Barca’s arm. He leaned forward and touched his lips to Barca’s ear.

“Always?” he murmured, and Barca laughed softly.


End file.
